Disillusioned
by Allyswrites
Summary: "Being on the Dark side wasn't the romantic notion that he'd once believed it to be. He suddenly discovered himself to be lacking in the bloodlust that others seemed to revel in." The skirmish at Malfoy Manor, from Draco's POV. [complete for the time being]


**Author's note:** To anybody who is waiting on the next chapter of _Headmaster Snape,_ have no fear, it is in the works! This idea came into my head, though, and was very insistent that I put writing it at the top of my priorities. Not sure if it'll be a one-shot or something more; I said that _Headmaster Snape_ would be a one-shot, but I'm working on the eighth chapter now, so we'll see. Please review!

 **Warnings:** Torture

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter. I referenced pages 370-384 of _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ while writing this.

 **Disillusioned**

Draco Malfoy was, on his father's orders, home for the Easter holidays. If he could have had his way, he would still be at Hogwarts, since the Manor wasn't somewhere that he particularly wanted to be. The place felt even less cozy than usual, given that it was now Death Eater headquarters, and the Malfoys were at the bottom of the Death Eater totem pole. The mood was excruciatingly tense.

To say that Draco felt disillusioned with the lifestyle would have been an understatement. It was one thing to grow up immersed in a culture of pureblood supremacy, to be taught and subscribe to Death Eater beliefs in theory. It was easy to listen and reiterate, it was harder to act accordingly. Nothing in his rather cushioned life had prepared him for the stark realities of being Marked, and Draco suddenly discovered himself to be lacking in the bloodlust that others seemed to revel in.

(Being on the Dark side wasn't the romantic notion that he'd once believed it to be.)

He supposed that he used to view the war with the same attitude that he applied to schoolyard rivalries. Insults, pranks, trying to get anyone wearing a red and gold tie into trouble: Stuff worth being competitive about, but nothing too bad in the grand scheme of things.

(It turned out that the grand scheme of things was much more serious than winning the House Cup.)

The final illumination had come with his mission to kill Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore could be a real fool, a blindly-trusting idiot who believed that a lemon candy and a condescending pat on the head could bring around world peace, but he didn't deserve to be _murdered._ Moreover, Draco wasn't ready to be a killer.

( _Cue the panicked assassination attempts,_ he thought with a wry insecurity.)

Things had really gone downhill after that night at the top of the Astronomy Tower, when Snape had shoved him out of the way and finished off the old Headmaster himself. Draco's initial feeling was one of relief, but it had quickly turned to fear as he considered how the Dark Lord might punish him for being unable to utter the fatal "avada kedavra."

Although relatively minor retribution had come to Draco personally, it was not long after the incident when the Dark Lord claimed Malfoy Manor for himself, and not long after that when the Dark Lord snapped Lucius's wand in front of the rest of the inner circle. There had been a moment of pure terror, in which Draco was convinced that he would watch his father die right there, at that table, on his own property.

(He wondered if his father regretted joining the Dark Lord's forces.)

He had eventually reached the conclusion that the only thing he could do was be resigned to the side he was on. Running away, defecting to the Light—not that they would trust him anyway—and refusing to cooperate would all end in certain death. Because he possessed a good dash of Slytherin self-preservation, that outcome made all three options undesirable. The best he could do was play the game and hope the Dementors didn't drive him to insanity when he was sentenced to Azkaban for life, if the Light won the war, and if he survived the ordeal.

* * *

Draco and his father sat across from each other in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor, the former feeling uncomfortable and the latter looking relatively at-ease. For the most part, they did not speak; Lucius occasionally punctuated the silence with inquiries about the goings-on at Hogwarts. Draco perceived each question to be more like an interrogation than a father simply asking his son how school was going.

Although the fireplace was lit, the room felt cold. Light bounced off of the many crystals in the chandelier, bright flecks that dissipated into the shadows. Draco was experiencing a strange, paradoxical sensation, in which the open expanse of the large room made him feel claustrophobic. Maybe it was just because he felt so out of his element—in everything he did—and he was so unused to feeling like a fish out of the water, to quote the common phrase.

Draco's anxiety only increased when a slew of people entered the room. Narcissa led the procession, followed by Greyback, four captives—even from afar, he could make out a shock of ginger hair and a head of frizzy curls—and a couple of people whom Draco didn't recognize.

(A lot of faces came and went, sometimes there one day and dead the next.)

"What is this?" Lucius asked. He sounded bored.

Narcissa explained, "They say they've got Potter." Then she ordered, "Draco, come here."

With trepidation, Draco rose and approached the pitiful group. Potter—he already knew that it was Potter, thanks to the presence of Weasley and Granger—looked as though someone had mistaken his head for a balloon and inflated it: Grimy black hair fell over a shiny, puffed-up face.

( _What in Merlin's name happened to him?_ )

"Well, Draco?" Lucius prompted. He sounded so excited that Draco couldn't help but compare him to crazy Aunt Bella, whose ardent Dark Lord-worship seemed excessive, even for a Death Eater of the inner circle. "Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"

Draco imperceptibly shifted his weight. He would have shrugged, had such inelegant responses not been trained out of him at an early age. "I can't- I can't be sure," he hedged. The other boy studiously avoided looking Draco in the eye, and he returned the favour.

"But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!"

He took one miniscule step forward, feeling self-conscious with everybody scrutinizing him for his reaction. He heard his father rise from the armchair. Lucius's voice got louder as the man approached.

"Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything will be forgiv-"

Draco forced himself not to flinch as Greyback spoke up: "Now, we won't be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope, Mister Malfoy?"

"Of course not, of course not!" Draco could hear the eye roll in his father's voice, not that Lucius would ever adopt such an undignified mannerism. He watched as his father moved to inspect the boy himself, peering into Potter's face at such a close proximity that they were literally nose-to-nose.

"What did you do to him?" Lucius unknowingly echoed Draco's thoughts. "How did he get into this state?"

"That wasn't us," Greyback said, although Draco wasn't sure that he believed the werewolf.

"Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me," Lucius mused, almost to himself. "There's something there, it could be the scar, stretched tight…. Draco, come here, look _properly!_ What do you think?"

Draco acquiesced, trying to settle his features into that cold, indifferent expression at which his mother and father and Snape were so practiced. He suspected that he failed.

He examined Potter's face close-up for hardly five seconds before he straightened and declared again, "I don't know." Then he went to stand beside his mother at the fireplace, although he was itching to just leave the room and avoid the scene completely.

( _Grow a spine,_ he told himself sternly.)

"We had better be certain, Lucius," Narcissa cautioned, demonstrating greater restraint than her husband, "completely sure that sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord. They say this is his, but it does not resemble Ollivander's description."

Draco looked at the object. Wherever Potter's actual wand was, it certainly was not the one that his mother held up.

"If we are mistaken," Narcissa continued in a chilled but hushed tone, "if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing… remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?"

Draco suppressed another flinch.

"What about the Mudblood then?" Greyback prodded impatiently.

"Wait." Draco felt his mother suddenly become more alert. "Yes—yes, she was in Madam Malkin's with Potter! I saw her picture in the _Prophet_! Look, Draco"—she squeezed his shoulder, and Draco wasn't sure if the action was meant to be warning or encouraging—"isn't it the Granger girl?"

"I…" He tried to think of any reason not to identify her. Unfortunately for her, she looked the same as she always had, albeit in need of a good shower, and so he came up short. _"Maybe…_ yeah."

He hadn't seen his father this thrilled in a long time. "But then, that's the Weasley boy!" Lucius had completely abandoned any amount of composure and actually shouted in unadulterated glee. "It's them, it's Potter's friends—Draco look at him, isn't it Arthur Weasley's son, what's his name—?"

Draco turned around under the pretense of warming his hands by the fire. "Yeah," he said in a bland, noncommittal tone. "It could be."

He returned to his previous orientation when the drawing room doors opened and more trouble announced its presence, in the form of Bellatrix.

"What is this?" the witch asked, her shrill voice echoing off the walls. Draco thought that the sound was painful enough to rival that of nails on a chalkboard. "What's happened, Cissy?"

Draco didn't like his aunt very much—for one thing, Azkaban had really done a number on her—and the feeling seemed to be mutual. Usually the only time Draco heard his mother snap at her sister was in defence of him; Aunt Bella liked to make sure he knew that she thought he was semi-useless.

Nobody offered an explanation as Bellatrix walked towards the prisoners and circled them, like a shark about to attack. Her eyes latched onto Granger.

"But surely," she said softly, piecing the puzzle together, "this is the Mudblood girl? This is Granger?"

"Yes, yes, it's Granger!" Lucius cried. "And beside her, we think, Potter! Potter and his friends, caught at last!"

Bellatrix redirected her focus to the much sought-after Boy Who Lived, whose face still resembled a blimp. "Potter?!" she shrieked. "Are you sure? Well, then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!"

Everybody's attention was caught by the following altercation.

"I was about to call him!" Lucius said, hastily grabbing Bellatrix by the wrist, preventing her from touching the Mark and summoning the Dark Lord. " _I_ shall summon him, Bella, Potter has been brought to _my_ house, and it is therefore upon my authority-"

Bellatrix took exception to both Lucius's words and to being manhandled. Her face twisted into a sneer.

( _Aunt Bella could win a sneering contest,_ Draco thought absent-mindedly.)

"You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius!" Bellatrix was alternately yanking her arm back and shoving her brother-in-law away in attempt to free her wrist. "How dare you! Take your hands off me!"

"This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy-"

"Begging your pardon, _Mister_ Malfoy," Greyback interjected, "but it's us that caught Potter, and it's us that'll be claiming the gold-"

"Gold!" Bellatrix laughed briefly. Her unhindered hand was reaching for her wand as she spoke. "Take your gold, _filthy scavenger,"_ she spat the insult, "what do I want with gold? I seek only the honour of his- of-" Her fighting came to a sputtering halt.

Lucius took the moment to pull up his left sleeve, revealing the black ink.

" _Stop!"_ Bellatrix screeched. "Do not touch it, we shall all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!"

Draco frowned, not sure if his aunt had a legitimate reason to be upset, or if she was just being melodramatic again. When it became apparent that there was indeed a method to her madness—this time, anyway—he began wondering if anyone would notice him slipping out. Aunt Bella in a rage wasn't something that he wanted to stick around for. Especially if she was going to be rendering people unconscious.

"Where did you find this sword?" she demanded of a now-immobile Greyback. "Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!" She released the spell, glaring at the uncommunicative werewolf.

Draco tried to put a neutral expression on his face again when Bellatrix called to him.

"Move this scum outside." She gestured carelessly to the stunned Snatchers. "If you haven't got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me."

His mother, who had been watching the whole affair with impassive stillness, took a furious step forward. The venom in her voice could have burned off a layer of skin. "Don't you dare speak to Draco like that," Narcissa began.

"Be quiet!" Bellatrix, ironically, yelled to shut down her sister's rebuke. "The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!"

In the heavy silence that fell upon the room, Draco touched his mother on the arm in what he thought was a reassuring gesture. Without a word, he levitated the unconscious men and left with them floating just ahead of him. The last thing he heard before closing the door was Bellatrix muttering to herself about Potter.

* * *

Draco left the stunned Snatchers in the courtyard, as his aunt had dictated. Although he was loathe to prove her right, still he could not bring himself to kill them. He took a few moments to breathe in deeply and exhale loudly, repeating this pattern several times before heading back into the Manor.

(He prayed that the day wouldn't get any worse.)

Ear-splitting screams drowned out any noise he made admitting himself into the drawing room again. Bellatrix stood over Granger's writhing form, brandishing a knife with one hand and her wand in the other. There were recurring flashes of red light as she cast the Cruciatus Curse over and over again. Muffled shouting of, _"Hermione! Hermione!"_ drifted up from the cellar.

Draco returned to his mother's side, averting his eyes and staring at the ground. Five years ago, he might have enjoyed watching the know-it-all Mudblood being tortured—or he thought that he might have—but now the proceedings made him feel sick. For all that he disliked her, there was something disconcerting, even disturbing, about seeing the firecracker of a witch in such a state.

"What else did you take, what else?" Bellatrix was asking shrilly. "Answer me! _Crucio!"_

Draco understood the acute fury that could wash over a person and how it could motivate them to do things that they normally wouldn't do without provocation. He had, after all, tried to use the Cruciatus on Potter in sixth year, after his nemesis had caught him crying in the bathroom. He discovered that he found it difficult, however, to use the curse without that blind rage; when they used it in Dark Arts class, or on children who had earned detention with the Carrows, or on anyone else who had not caused him any affront, he might even go so far as to say that he felt _guilty._

His father's voice dragged him out of his thoughts. "But we can find out easily! Draco"—he looked up—"fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"

Draco nodded, eyeing the floor again as he descended the steps to the cellar.

"Stand back," he said to the door. He internally cursed his shaking voice, which gave away how nervous he was. "Line up against the back wall. Don't try anything, or I'll kill you!"

(They didn't have to know that he'd never carry out his threat.)

He silently unlocked and shoved open the door. Inside the cellar, it was pitch-black, and Draco squinted a bit in effort to make out the forms inside. To his relief, the captives had followed his orders. He stepped forward determinedly, seizing the goblin by the arm—at least his hands weren't shaking—and leaving without a second glance. He slammed the door shut and relocked it.

(Was that the sound of apparation he heard?)

"I've got him," Draco called as he dragged the goblin along. His announcement was overridden by more screams from Granger.

Another _crack,_ faint but definite, came from the cellar, causing them all to pause.

"What was that?" Lucius spoke first. "Did you hear that? What was that noise in the cellar? Draco-" Seeing that his son still held the goblin by the arm, he reconsidered: "No, call Wormtail! Make him go and check!"

Narcissa nodded once at her husband and promptly left the room. The remaining Death Eaters listened intently for more suspicious activity, but the only thing they could hear was Granger's laboured breathing, her tears and agonized whimpering having subsided for the time being.

It wasn't long before Narcissa returned, the rat-like man in tow. Wormtail made his way down to the cellar, looking somewhat grudging. Apparently they had disturbed whatever he'd been doing.

"Stand back!" They heard him say, his voice as wheezy and annoying as ever. "Stand away from the door. I am coming in."

There was yet another stretch of silence, which Lucius eventually broke again: "What is it, Wormtail?"

"Nothing!" came the reply. "All fine!

Bellatrix grinned suddenly. Draco thought that his aunt's smile was perhaps even more ferocious than her sneer. "Then we had best continue working on _carving_ an answer out of the little _Mudblood,"_ she said in a saccharine tone that fooled nobody. She dropped to the ground and straddled the younger witch. "How did you get into my vault?" she breathed, her mouth right next to Granger's ear.

Granger mutely shook her head, seemingly too terrified to articulate a denial. More dreadful screams sliced through the air as Bellatrix pierced the flesh of her prey's left arm, and Draco looked away again.

(He could die happy if he never heard another scream.)

He only turned his head back when the quiet returned, and Bellatrix yanked the goblin from him. He moved away, eager to put a bit of distance between Aunt Bella and himself.

"Well?" She asked, looking like a rabid dog. "Is it the true sword?"

"No," the goblin replied. "It is a fake."

"Are you sure? Quite sure?"

"Yes."

"Good."

(Pity the revelation of this truth hadn't saved Granger from all that pain.)

Now that her fear was alleviated, the tension drained from Bellatrix's body, and she resumed looking self-satisfied. She gave the goblin, now just a worthless creature, one of many, a strong kick in the ribs. "And now, we call the Dark Lord!"

Lucius lunged forward to stop her again, still intent on being the one to call their master and restore the Malfoy name, but he was too late this time, and Bellatrix's Dark Mark came alive when she touched her forefinger to it.

"And I think," she said with a smug look in Lucius's direction, "we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her."

" _No!"_

Draco wasn't sure what exactly happened during the ensuing duel—as he dodged, blocked, and cast spells, he felt as though he were moving through a dream—but he knew that it ended when Bellatrix gave the ultimatum: _"Stop or she dies!"_

Potter and Weasley both froze.

"Drop your wand," Bellatrix demanded, her knife pressed to Granger's throat. "Drop them, or we'll see exactly how filthy her blood is!" Nobody moved. "I said, drop them!"

"All right!" Potter yelled. Draco didn't think he'd ever seen his nemesis look so stricken.

"Good!" That sinister grin was back on his aunt's face. "Draco, pick them up!"

Draco hastened to obey the command, retrieving Weasley's and Potter's wands from where they lay harmless on the floor. He vaguely registered his aunt crowing triumphantly about Potter's imminent demise, but everything still felt a bit hazy, a bit detached.

The next thing of which he was aware was a peculiar grinding noise from above. All of them, Draco included, looked upwards in time to see the chandelier shaking. There was a tinkling noise as the small crystals clinked together. Then the fixture plummeted to the floor, and Bellatrix, who stood directly in its path, dove away, dropping Granger in the process.

Crystal shards flew to the far corners of the room, lodging themselves in whatever surface they happened to meet. Draco doubled over, trying and failing to cover his face with his arms. The grip he held on the three wands—Weasley's, Potter's, and his own—automatically tightened when he felt something trying to wrest them away, but it was a lost battle.

" _Stupefy!"_ Someone cried.

He felt his mother tug him farther from the wreckage. She took a protective stance in front of him. Peering over her shoulder, trying to ignore the needling pain in his face where the shards had cut his skin, he saw that his father and Greyback were both unconscious, and his aunt was rising to her feet, knife poised.

The next shout, however, did not come from Bellatrix, but from Narcissa. "Dobby! You! _You_ dropped the chandelier—?" Her voice petered out at the end as her disbelief overcame her anger.

The Malfoy's former house elf, who emerged from behind the bulk of the ruined chandelier, was apparently a force to be reckoned with.

(Considering the damage that the elf had already inflicted, Draco suspected that they were going to lose this reckoning.)

"You must not hurt Harry Potter." Although the solemnity with which Dobby spoke was almost comical coming from the odd little creature, his sincerity and the power behind his words could not be questioned.

"Kill him, Cissy!" came Bellatrix's immediate response—the standard one—but there was a _crack,_ and Narcissa's wand flew to the opposite end of the room, courtesy of house elf magic.

Everything began to happen quickly again: the cacophony of shouted abuse from both parties, Potter and Weasley and Granger and the goblin, all hanging on to Dobby, Bellatrix's silver knife being sucked into the whirlwind of apparation. On the fringes of it, Draco stood motionless behind his mother's equally still figure.

He drew in a shaky breath. "Mother," he whispered to catch Narcissa's attention.

She started, and then turned to look at him, opening her mouth as if to speak. What she was going to say, however, Draco never found out; the drawing room doors banged open, accompanied by a dramatic puff of smoke.

"If you do not have a good reason for calling me back…."

( _Please let me die quickly._ )

The Dark Lord had arrived.


End file.
